


ask me no questions (I will tell you no lies)

by Frenchibi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I know I know I keep writing about nightmares don't @ me, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 16:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19815853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchibi/pseuds/Frenchibi
Summary: It’s one of those nights again.If you ever ask, Crowley will tell you he’s fine.





	ask me no questions (I will tell you no lies)

**Author's Note:**

> _Ask me no questions, I will tell you no lies - I'm not asking for a miracle_  
>  _We're looking for angels in the darkest of skies, I'm not asking for a miracle_  
>  (Miracle by Chvrches)
> 
> This was inspired by an artwork on tumblr which I didn't bookmark because I'm gay _and_ stupid so I'll link it when I find it again (please shoot me)
> 
> Also I was trying a different style - would love to hear thoughts!!  
> Also also I know this is anOTHER fic about nightmares but listen. I have feelings?? And it's not the same as the last one ok I promise

It’s one of those nights again.

If you ever ask, Crowley will tell you he’s fine. Everything _is_ fine, broadly. The apocalypse has been averted, for now (hopefully for a while), Heaven and Hell have kept their distance and can be expected to keep doing so (hopefully for a while) – and, most importantly, there’s an angel choosing to stay by his side (hopefully forever, but don’t tell him Crowley said that, not yet).

And all of these things are true. Crowley takes care to remind himself of these facts regularly (most notably, when he wakes up on nights like this), insisting things are, indeed, fine, because, well, they _are_.

But there are nightmares.

As someone who elects to sleep rather than needing to, you wouldn’t think Crowley’d let dreams shake him so much. He’s not sure (not that he’d ever admit to being shaken in the first place, but, hypothetically-) what it is about them that hits him so hard. Most of the time, he can tell that they’re not real, since he takes so much care to remind himself of the _actual_ reality – but still, he finds himself getting caught up in visions of War, of loss, of fear.

Sometimes it’s Heaven, knocking at their door. Most of the time, it’s hell. Probably since Crowley has a clearer idea of Hell’s motives, Hell’s actions, Hell’s punishments.

Probably because Crowley thinks he can handle Heaven. He can handle being the one in danger of holy water.

What he can’t handle is the thought of the angel, burning.

Those nightmares cut deep into his bones, and he wakes from them in cold sweat, frantic and wretched. But even those, he’s learning how to handle.

And then, sometimes, the dreams have no antagonists.

Those might be the worst of all. There’s nothing but a sense of dread, and darkness, and the soul-crushing truth that he’s _alone._ There’s no one to fight, no one to vanquish, nowhere to go. This must be what eternity is like – nothingness, after the world ends, no Heaven, no Hell, no damnation. It’s dark, and cold, and Aziraphale is gone.

Tonight is such a night.

You’d think Crowley would just stop sleeping, but you’d be surprised how hard a habit it is to break.

Besides, he spends his days at the angel’s side, and there’s nothing that makes him feel quite as invincible as that. Well, until the dreams return and he wakes again, small and frightened, and swallows against the weights in his throat and his chest.

Aziraphale doesn’t sleep, as a habit. He’s told Crowley as much, how he can’t seem to sacrifice precious hours he could be spending otherwise; tracking down and cataloguing books, or reading, or organizing his collections.

At least, that was before. These days, some things have changed.

These days, Aziraphale has a demon to help with these kinds of chores – and, consequently, a companion who happens to enjoy sleeping (in general).

There is a bedroom above the bookshop – there always has been, since it’s the correct way to do things, and since the angel doesn’t mind a change of scenery (as in, the backdrop of places he likes to sit and read in) – and these days, it’s actually being used for sleeping.

If you ask Crowley about it, he’ll probably change the subject, or, more likely, ask you who you think you are, prying into their personal lives.

The truth is, he’s not even sure how it happened.

Don’t misunderstand – he has a very vivid memory of the first time Aziraphale grabbed the front of his shirt and, a culmination of six thousand years of frustration, kissed him squarely on the mouth. But that’s not really where they began, is it? They’ve been dancing around one another for millennia, it was only a matter of time until they collided. And it was really only after the threat of consequences from on High or Below had fallen away that Aziraphale dared acknowledge all the unsaid things between them – but that doesn’t mean they weren’t there before.

The point is – it doesn’t matter how they got here.

Crowley’s plants crowd the narrow staircase that separates the bookshop from the flat above (looking less terrified due to prolonged exposure to angelic love, but the fear of Crowley is still ever-present in the background), and he’s insisted on exchanging the sofa for a more comfortable one – but other than that, not much has changed, appearance-wise, since Crowley moved in.

Technically, he still has that flat (conveniently forgotten by London real estate agents, unlisted and unfindable), but in all honesty, he has no plans to go back. He’s not sentimental (not about that, anyway) and has moved his small number of keepsakes from six thousand years on earth to a room upstairs that Aziraphale cleared for him.

He likes that he has his own space, even though he rarely uses it. There’s a bed there, too, but it doesn’t have an angel in it, you know?

So yes, Aziraphale has taken to sleeping. Remarkably well, too, one might add, for someone who has avoided it for so long, or simply not considered the benefits.

That’s the tiny silver lining Crowley gets, even on nights like this – that when he wakes (no matter how crushed), he wakes with the angel beside him.

The darkness rolls off him slowly, today, lingering even as his eyes slip open. The way he wakes is remarkably peaceful, considering the horror pounding against his ribs. His limbs feel heavy and electric all at once, and he reminds himself to breathe.

Those first moments are the worst, when you’re teetering on the edge of reality, and the dream still feels close and tangible, like it might grab you back and drag you under again. It takes an iron will and physical force to break free, and that takes its toll.

When he manages to sit up, he’s shaking, tiny tremors of leftover adrenaline and yes, fear, of course it’s fear. When you’ve found something that lights your world, there’s nothing quite like the threat of falling back into the dark.

Crowley turns his head towards the heap of angel beside him, half to see if he’s jostled him awake, half to make sure he’s still there, even though Crowley can feel his warmth and weight on the mattress, and a leg brushing his own. In these moments, he needs to see to believe.

Aziraphale exhales, shifting ever so slightly in his sleep, and Crowley feels the tension ebb, just so. Not gone, just alleviated by a tiny fraction. Not enough to still his racing heart.

Terrible thing, really, human hearts. Heavy on the upkeep – not meant to last six thousand years, and counting. Requires the odd miracle now and again (consistently) to house a celestial (and/or occult) being, to keep the blood pumping. Or, who knows, maybe celestial blood can do that on its own, and the muscle pounding in his chest is just a reaction to the whirlwind in his mind.

Either way, it’s not helping with the anxiety, and he breathes against it, trying to force calm.

Maybe it’s his unsteady heart, or the fact that he’s trying to hold too still – but Aziraphale stirs then, beside him. Turns, reaching out for him, gentle and confused.

Crowley freezes, tenses, gasps.

“Are you alright, dear?”

The angel’s gaze is half-lidded and soft, and in a gut-wrenching instant, Crowley’s fear returns, full-force. Just look at him, this wonderful, beautiful, vulnerable angel who means more than the entire world combined, this careful, fragile creature that he can’t, he _cannot_ bear to lose, because there’s nothing, _nothing_ left in this realm or any other for him if Aziraphale is gone.

A terribly familiar dread makes Crowley’s insides drop – it’s fire, all over again, and the angel nowhere to be found. It’s darkness, and clammy cold, and suddenly sterile light and a voice that says “just _die_ already”. It’s every form of torture he’s ever had to feel. It’s like Falling, all over, and over, and over.

“Angel,” Crowley gasps, through the fear constricting his lungs, “angel, angel, please-”

When he falls forward, Aziraphale rises, arms unfolding, up to meet him, catch him, _hold_.

Crowley’s fingers dig into his skin, shoulders and ribs, and soft fabric twisting as he tugs, pulls closer, clings and shudders.

If you ask Aziraphale about the nightmares, he’ll close his eyes and sigh. Worry will cross his features (why would you ask him? Why?), and he’ll say he wishes there was more, more that he could do.

“Don’t leave me,” Crowley gasps, “don’t ever, please, don’t leave me-”

Admission, confession, beseeching all in one. And Aziraphale, impossibly warm and incredibly strong, a _warrior,_ if a reluctant one, an angel with a thousand eyes hidden under dimples and a charming smile – he holds. Catches all of Crowley’s fear and twists it out of reach. Finds every ounce of desperation, the pain, the terror – and holds.

Crowley’s grip is like a vice, powerful, terrified. The angel squeezes back, solid, certain, _there._

“Oh, darling,” he whispers, his voice soft, a confession of his own, a truth.

“Don’t go, angel, please, I-”

“I won’t-”

“I can’t lose you-”

“You _won’t._ ”

It’s a certainty Crowley knows he can’t promise, but the conviction in the angel’s voice is infallible all the same. Maybe this is all they can do, give their words, hold fast to the meaning, cling to a hope until it grows into reality. Every day they wake, side by side, is another piece of their future fulfilled – every night as they settle into bed means another day they’ve been safe, and together.

Crowley wishes he could stop shrinking from the future, regretting the past, fretting through the present. He wishes this sense of dread, ever-present, hovering, would dissipate.

The only thing that helps is Aziraphale’s hands, his arms, his smile. And daylight, rising with the morning without fail, no matter how dark the night.

So he allows himself to fall, to be caught and protected when he needs a reminder that he’s not alone against the darkness (or the Light).

If you ask them about the future, Aziraphale will give a half-shrug and a wry smile (“Oh, you know.”) and Crowley will reach for his hand, or his knee, or his shoulder, whichever’s closest, (because he does that, he can do that, whenever he wants) and he won’t fight the warmth in his chest or the fondness in his eyes. There’s always a hint of a dare in it, too, _oh, don’t even try to get between this, I will unleash hell,_ and Aziraphale is well aware of this - he’ll give his demon a stern look if the menace overflows, but he won’t stop him, won’t interfere, for deep down he, too, is slightly weary. But it’s okay, because they’re on the same page, with this. They’re linked like the digits of their fingers, understanding passing through every point of contact. Aziraphale has no flaming sword, but he can vanquish all the same, and he won’t hesitate, if he must. There are things he will choose to protect, even if he won’t enjoy the violence.

But, you know. That’s a problem for later. For now, they’re just content to be together. And it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> y'all know the drill, find me on them social media sites under frenchibi to chat w/ me, any and all messages very welcome (pls talk to me)
> 
> Shout-out to my friend Jakob, whom I told I would like [sic; _I meant link_ ] when I was done with this fic - guess we can _actually_ be friends now lmfao


End file.
